Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Outdoor Dining
Where to Eat
A Package? Pour Moi?
Voila!
Sunday in the Park with....
One last look before....
..the forks attack! And then...
..tout est finit!
Click! on any image for a larger version. Bring a napkin along, just in case.
Labels: Food Issues, Paris
Friday, December 11, 2009
Le Cimetière de Montparnasse
Located in the 14th arrondissement, Cimetière de Montparnasse is just one of the many cemeteries in Paris that invite curiosity-seekers, cemetery tourists, and folks in need of a quiet respite from the brouhaha of constant people motion. With limited free time, I picked this particular place simply because it was in the arrondissement I happened to be poking around in. Well, not all true that. Unlike other folks obsessed with Jim Morrison's or Oscar Wilde's grave site, Jean Paul Sartre and Samuel Beckett's were my dead-'n-gone fixations and Le Cimetière de Montparnasse contained both. The same cemetery also was home to Man Ray's, Eugene Ionesco's, and their respective spouses' resting places.Man Ray is buried with his wife ("Together Again") Juliet Man Ray in a grave
marked with "Unconcerned but not Indifferent" etched out in a loose handwritten style on one of the two headstones. Empty plastic film containers along with some flowers were placed near the headstones.The guide maps that are given out free at the main entrance were accurate enough to get you to the general area of the cemetery where you then meandered up, down, left, & right in the vicinity until you came upon your searched site. Or, like me when it came to finding Man Ray's grave, you could ask one of the helpful cemetery workers for assistance.
Each of the fellows I put my inquiry to was extremely patient; I just wish my French ear was sharp enough to catch and comprehend their little asides they threw out as they left me by each site. I'm sure these pithy remarks would have made my Montparnasse memories more vibrant. Samuel Beckett's grave site was simple with clean lines. I moved a bouquet of flowers to allow a camera shot of his name (To prevent any spiritual backlash, folks, I immediately placed the flowers back in the EXACT SAME SPOT (No Beckettian JuJu on me!)). At the foot of the grey-white speckled marble, a pamphlet written in dedication to Beckett, in Italian, was laid out, open to a page that the author signed with a "For You, Sam" salutation.
Suzanne Beckett is also buried with Samuel Beckett, as is Rodica Ionesco with her husband Eugene Ionesco. The joining together in death all made sense to me for these people....But...Jean Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir being together surprised me. Actually, not the being buried together part, but the actrual act of being buried at all, specifically Sartre's body. Somehow, I assumed that being the Ultimate Existentialist, Sartre would NOT be buried at all.
Not being an Existentialist but being a royal Pain in the Ass (a condition that covers many philosophies), I barked on through that day and the following to anyone within my yapping as to "Why is Sartre the Existentialist even buried?" My daughter's fellow students quickly learned to skeedaddle upon espying me entering their domain. I was the verbal equivalent of the beggars parked at most Metro entrances, preying on your loose1 or 2 Euro coinage. With Sartre, I'd expected a casting of ashes to the wind, flecks of existentialism
forever riding air waves in and about Paris. The finality of a sealed box 6 feet under at Le Cimetière de Montparnasse seemed so....uhmm...anti-existentialist. The interesting location of the grave (it's the grave closest to the main entrance/exit (depending on one's viewpoint) of the cemetery) suggested to me that perhaps he was still waiting to escape the walls of his confinement.The day that I happened to be walking in and around the grounds of the cemetery were mainly overcast with an occasional shaft of sunlight shotting through. Perfect conditions for soul-searching and gravestone-gaping. When not bugging the workers in the cemetery for locations, I had a Nano plugged in with Tortoise's TNT on constant replay. "I Set My Face to the Hillside"? A perfect song for the rumination.
One last note, Cesar Baldacinni's grave was amazing. The 12 year old site was remarkable in the weathering that it's gone through, the sculpture's sharp edges still holding up to the Parisian rain crying down on it.
Click on any image to see a larger version
Labels: Paris, Road Trips
Wednesday, December 09, 2009
Le Caveau des Oubliettes
With only a week to enjoy the infinite possibiliites of Paris, a choice had to be made as regards a night out in the jazz vein. Amongst the choices, Le Caveau des Oubliettes came out on top. Caveau de la Huchette, Franc Pinot Jazz Club, and Le Baiser Salé Jazz Club were other possibilities, but Le Caveau des Oubliettes (Cave of the Forgotten Ones) was too tempting with its unearthly title and history. 
What started as a gang of five afficionados going to the Wednesday "Latin Swing Jam" night ended up as a solo visit by yours truly. Oubliettes is located in the 5th arrondissement, across the Seine from Notre Dame and two Metro lines away from my rented apartment in the 11th arrondissement, a short ride there but a guaranteed longer walk back home if I missed the last Metro at 12:30 a.m. The club is located in a touristy part of the city, but once 10:00 has struck, the tourists tend to depart and the area is occupied by locals.Stepping through the door of the premises, I did a quick stop. A huge flat screen was the center of the patrons' attnetion. It was the night of the (soon-to-be) infamous France-Ireland World Cup qualifying match. Aside from Thierry Henry's "Hand of Gaul" goal, there did not seem to be any hands of Jazz on hand. I proceeded to the back of the bar, where one man out of many stood out as he was the only one not paying attention to the game. It seemed to be safest to pose the "Ou'est le Jazz?" to him; I feared bodily harm and suspicious glances if I asked such an inquiry to anyone else.
A perfunctory up-and-down scan was followed by a slight nod to the right. Turning away from the packed bar upstairs, I descended some steep stone stairs to what appeared to my still adjusting eyes as a basement, a cellar recently used to store coal or other soot-emitting material. Lighting was minimal, stone was maximal, drink prices were astronomical. With no cover charge, 8 Euros ($14) for a beer encouraged a drink-nursing behaviour. But, one wasn't paying for the beverage; it was the atmosphere that required the high bottle rent. The jazz club was divided into two slim but long sections. One was for sitting, drinking and talking. The other was for sitting, drinking, and listening. The musician's gear was stacked at one end of the 100 ft long space, while tables and chairs were laid out in the balance of the room. I arrived 15 minutes early for the 10:00 o'clock show, which probably would have started fairly close to that time, save for the football hysterics happening upstairs.The band, nameless as far as I can tell, was young and was part of the World Cup intensity. So, the first set began close to 11:00, only 1 hour and a half before the Metros closed down for the night. Composed of an electric piano player of good form, a 6-string bass player and spokesperson, and the tallest drummer (must've been 6"8', easily) I'd ever seen, the band was energetic and more than willing to play the 10-15 minute songs, eschewing brevity for langorous intensity. The drummer was especially action-packed, figuring that speed and strong strikes of his sticks would hide his lack of subtlety. The crowd was between 18-30, with one or two of us oldtimers sprinkled in, so youth ruled both from the band's repertoire and the
audience's desire for the same. The Oubliettes' acoustics were phenomenal; clarity and power without reverberation. Highly recommended with the additional note that it would be a good idea to have a rental car for the night, so that you, unlike yours truly, could stay for the second set.
Oh, and the $14 beer? Yep, I was able to nurse it through 2 hours of absorbing, sitting, and listening.
Labels: Paris, Road Trips
Tuesday, December 08, 2009
Shakespeare & Co.
Looking around from the peaks of Notre Dame Cathedral (IMHO, still the best place to see all of Paris...yeah, yeah, I know you Eiffelites are barely holding yourselves back in insisting your vantage point (allegedly because it's higher) is better. To this I ask, "Which is at the center of Paris, the Cathedral or the Tower?"), I concentrated on the lower buildings on the left bank of the Seine, staring, rudely at times, until the store came into view. LikeShakespeare & Company is all it's made out to be, the cathedral of English print books in Paris. It is a mecca but it is not a tourist trap. Were there other idiots like me, mouth agape and itchy finger on a digital camera, there? Absolutely! But, to the credit of the staff and of the other customers there, we were not treated like pests or neophytes. There were occasional chuckles dripping in my direction but not even a slight mote of sarcasm was detected. After a good 2 hours in the store and a (mightily) self-controlled purchase of only one book (Richler's "The Incomparable Atuk" ), I felt at home, my pulse back down to a steady unhurried beat. If there is a place of comfort more soothing to the soul than a tome-packed non-chain
bookstore, then, folks, please let me know of such a nirvana. Shakepeare is crammed to the gills with books and yet one doesn't feel hemmed in at all. Lighting is minimal but it isn't dark inside, almost as if the contents of the works are illuminating your way through the alleys of verical, horizontal, and pyramidal stacks. All of the books on the first floor are for sale and for one's perusal. There was no bum's rush behaviour evidenced by the folks working there; one felt acknowledged to be there in the presence of gob-millions of words.In the back of the first floor, by the right corner, a narrow staircase took you to the next floor. The painted stairs were well-worn with a carefully placed stack of books took up each step's wall-side end. Pictures and drawings took up the balance of the free wall space as you slowly ascended the stairs, stopping at almost each step to give the once-over to the books and the wall art.
Folks were very patient with each other as they ascended/descended the stairs, not rushing to each other's destination, simply enjoying the trip.The second floor had three sections, defined by their use and not any fine demarcation. There was a children's section, centered around a small "cave" of a secretive place where 3 walls and a ceiling were plastered with pictures and notes of people who'd laid down for a read and a nap. Another area had an upright piano (not sure if it worked as it was loaded up with books) as its center piece, with packed bookshelves all around as sound-deadeners. In the front part of the second floor, with windows looking out toward Notre Dame, the Seine, and the book/art/postcard/souvenir sellers along the wall of the Seine, was a working/sitting area where authors and poets did the occasional reading. Up here on the second floor, all the books were for reading. On the premises. No books were for sale up here; they were parts of the permanent charm of the place.
(Click on any picture to get a larger view.)
Labels: Books, Paris, Road Trips
Monday, November 30, 2009
4 Flights Up...
... to a dark blue varnished door. Three locks, two turn clockwise, one counter-clockwise. A tough go if you're winded, exhausted, and a tad inebriated from the down-the-corner cafe's late night carafe of wine. The city click-clacks on to the tune of high-heeled girls stomping with force on the cobble-stoned streets leading up the slight incline to the rows of old apartments. No one seems to sleep at the same time; someone is always up and about, needing to discuss their latest plight, an overblown amd imagined slight to their egos. Thin is all around; eternal movement shakes off any fat pleading to cling to their bodies. The Metro hums and drums underneath the street, kicking up speed at 5:30 in the a.m. and winding its way out and through and back in to the city until it stops to rest at 12:30 in the a.m., smoking its carefully trimmed Gauloises as the mechanics check for leaks and squeaks.Labels: Late Evenings, Paris
